Return of The Yiling Laozu

Transmigration

Wei Wuxian’s consciousness slammed into his body like a thousand arrows piercing through his skin. He gasped, lungs clawing for air. The cold night air tasted metallic, and a dull ache throbbed at the back of his skull. His fingers twitched against damp fabric—clothes too thin, too strange. His limbs felt weak, as if he had been sick for days.

A sharp, artificial beeping filled the air. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, white and sterile, nothing like the warm glow of lanterns he was used to. A thin tube was strapped to his arm, and something cold pinched the back of his hand. Wei Wuxian tried to sit up, but a sharp pain coiled in his chest.

“Ah, hell,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Did I actually die?”

His memories blurred—Qishan, the cliff, the wind howling like a beast, and then... nothing. He had flung himself into the abyss, expecting oblivion. But this—this was not death.

The door clicked open. A woman rushed in, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed. “Wei Ying, you’re awake!”

Wei Ying?

Before he could process the name, the woman flung herself at him, cradling his face between trembling hands. “A-Ying, you scared us to death. Why… why did you do such a foolish thing?”

The name echoed inside him, stirring something unfamiliar. Wei Ying. Wei Ying.

The pieces snapped together like a shattered mirror reassembling itself. The boy’s life swam up in fragments—hidden tears, silent screams behind a locked door, a heart that beat too fast for another boy’s smile. The sharp rejection of a family that should have loved him.

Wei Wuxian exhaled slowly. His soul had not been reborn into a fresh body; it had been thrust into someone else’s discarded shell.

And this boy—Wei Ying—had thrown himself into death for love.

---

Wei Wuxian played the role well. The laughter, the teasing grin, the casual shrugs—these came easily. Wei Zhangse and Cangse Sanren were relieved, believing their son had somehow been pulled back from the brink of despair. His younger sister, Wei Ching, clung to him, refusing to leave his side for days.

At night, he poured over Wei Ying’s diaries, piecing together a life not his own.

The boy’s words bled onto the pages, raw and desperate.

"I see him across the courtyard, standing with his friends. He doesn’t even know I exist."

"Maybe if I were different, they wouldn’t hate me so much. Maybe if I were normal, I wouldn’t be such a disappointment."

"Lan Zhan smiled at her today. The girl from the music club. It was the first time I wanted to disappear."

Wei Wuxian traced the ink with his fingertips, a cold weight settling in his chest. He had lived through rejection, through loneliness, through being feared for what he was. But this—this kind of quiet suffering, the weight of being unseen—was different.

He closed the diary, staring at the ceiling. "A-Ying," he murmured, the name feeling strange in his mouth. "You really were a fool for love, huh?"

---

The first time he saw him, Wei Wuxian forgot to breathe.

It was in the school courtyard, the air thick with the scent of autumn leaves. The students milled about, chatting, laughing. Then, through the shifting crowd, a figure stepped into view.

White uniform. Perfect posture. Eyes like pools of still water.

Wei Wuxian’s heart stuttered.

Lan Wangji.